


It is here, my daughters

by slattern



Series: another mother tongue [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Consensual Non-Consent, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), F/F, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hair covering, Hair-pulling, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Medieval, Nuns, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay, Temptation, The glory of the King's Daughter is covered, Vaginal Fingering, abbey - Freeform, kol k’vudah bat melekh p’nimah, surrender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slattern/pseuds/slattern
Summary: Who's tempting who?A column of grey-robed nuns glides through the courtyard in answer to the matins bell. Crowley leans on his spade behind the wood post fence separating him from the nuns' path. It’s already hot, and he’s sweated through the thin linen of his loose white shirt, now hanging limply over his plain breeches. His hair has come unfastened, dark strands tangle around his head, falling over his face.Crowley watches the nuns float by serenely, their profiles unwavering as their eyes trace the route they’re walking. The demon is seemingly invisible to them. The dark grey veils of the sisters’ habits set off the crisp white of their wimples, snug against the flesh of the women’s faces. Crowley gets faint tastes of their individuality, a desire here, a loss there, but mostly the energies of the women are as unruffled as their smooth grey robes. Until… with a riotous burst in his mind, a cabbage rose blooms against the monotone field.Angel…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: another mother tongue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033242
Comments: 19
Kudos: 74





	It is here, my daughters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurashapiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/gifts).



> Huge thanks to Tyrograph for agile and encouraging beta-ing that immeasurably improves my work. All errors and unrelinquished grammatical sins are mine.
> 
> For Laura, with gratitude, delight and blasphemy.
> 
> CW: consensual non-consent

_It is here, my daughters, that love is to be found - not hidden away in corners but in the midst of occasions of sin. And believe me, although we may more often fail and commit small lapses, our gain will be incomparably the greater._ -Saint Teresa of Avila

...o.O.O.o…

The first time it happened - well, it can’t have been the first time, really, but the first time Crowley really remembered… really noticed… was in a Belgian country abbey. The mid 1400s or so, based on his recall, give or take a century. Crowley was man-shaped, hanging around the abbey, digging a ditch here and there, repairing a stone wall. There must have been some assignment bringing him to the place, bringing them both, but buggered if he remembers what (there was no assignment, but Crowley’d wanted to be there for reasons which will become clear momentarily, and so had categorized the trip as ‘making trouble up there,’ the executive expense account of his demonic power.)

A column of grey-robed nuns glides through the courtyard in answer to the matins bell. Crowley leans on his spade behind the wood post fence separating him from the nuns' path. It’s already hot, and he’s sweated through the thin linen of his loose white shirt, now hanging limply over his plain breeches. His hair has come unfastened, dark strands tangle around his head, falling over his face.

Crowley watches the nuns float by serenely, their profiles unwavering as their eyes trace the route they’re walking. The demon is seemingly invisible to them. The dark grey veils of the sisters’ habits set off the crisp white of their wimples, snug against the flesh of the women’s faces. Crowley gets faint tastes of their individuality, a desire here, a loss there, but mostly the energies of the women are as unruffled as their smooth grey robes. Until… with a riotous burst in his mind, a cabbage rose blooms against the monotone field. 

_Angel…_

Crowley’s eyes go to the figure rounding the corner, intriguing curves mostly concealed by her voluminous habit. Pink cheeks, a ridiculous moue of a mouth, blue eyes looking right at him. Her lips curve into a plump, raspberry smile. 

A glint of gilt drags him from Aziraphale’s mouth. “Christ's fingernails…” [1] he breathes. The curse is like a cold shock of pleasure through him. The gold catching the sun is a blonde curl, forcing its way past the starched white rim of Aziraphale’s wimple, curving excessively across the shallow divot of her temple. Crowley’s cock throbs. He’s embarrassed by the cliché of it - like a bad example from a Church father’s screed, rendered instantly helpless by desire, he’s stiffened like a sapling at the sight of a single disobedient lock of angel hair. Well, what can you expect from a demon but lust, though, really. It was just a few years ago that he’d modeled for ‘Luxuria’ in the Book of Hours being commissioned by Marie, a wealthy widower in Brittany. Things had gone a bit sour between them by the time the illumination was started, Marie moving on to the charms of the estate’s herbwyfe, a ruddy and jolly woman more willing to make a permanent association. Crowley kept the hat for a few years though. [2]

Having thus mollified his irritation with himself, Crowley adjusts his stance, leaning his crotch into the wooden handle of his shovel, trapping his cock against his body. Controlled, somewhat. He meets Aziraphale’s eye again, before the angel looks down, away, coyly, pink frosting the apples of her cheeks. The procession floats on, until the last nuns are swallowed up by the dark door of the stone chapel. The incessant chiming of the chapel bell has given him a headache to go with his hard on.

...o.O.O.o…

Crowley splurges that night, exerting a rather unreasonable amount of power to manifest right into Aziraphale’s tiny stone cell.

“Crowley! What are you doing? This is very improper.” She’s still in her full habit, wimple softened with the day’s sweat and the heat of her body. A few other curls have joined the first in escaping their confines. When Crowley’d appeared at the foot of her bed, Aziraphale had jumped, genuinely startled -- despite whatever she might have anticipated was going to happen tonight. Her round cheeks are flushing dark pink, faint white blotches becoming more distinct as she looks at Crowley leaning like a suggestive question mark against the dark stone wall at the foot of the cot. The demon’s position is both furthest from the small altar to the Holy Virgin set up on the far wall, and between Aziraphale and the cell's heavy beamed door, resolutely barred.

“Don’t worry angel, I’m not here to penetrate the sanctity of the nunnery.” Crowley stands upright with a shimmy. She smiles. There's a faint scent of salt and sugared almonds in the air. It’s not coming from the buttered roll, studded with currants, that the demon spies on the leather stool next to the nun’s meager bed. The small clay tankard with the roll looks to contain the convent’s renowned raspberry lambic ale.

“Oh… Crowley, I can’t have you in here! I can’t talk about... “ her voice shifts into a reedy whisper. “The Arrangement…here. We’ll have to meet another time on neutral ground.”

"But I'm _here now_ , angel…" With an exaggerated lower lip quiver, Crowley sits next to Aziraphale on the narrow pallet. It's very small and hard on the demon’s thinly cushioned rear, covered just in labourer’s breeches of rough homespun. The knotted and worn fabric against her skin offers a soothing background of gritty sensation to the demon's active mind. Rather unlike the angel to be so committed to her vestal vow of poverty, Crowley thinks. Perhaps she is really trying for verisimilitude at the moment. This is fun.

The two of them are pressed together from hip to knee. Crowley can feel the heat in the angel's skin, the weight of her muscles as she shifts. The warm, giving bulk of the angel’s hip against hers draws Crowley with an inexorable force; she presses closer, right arm slithering across Aziraphale’s shoulders, drawing them together. The angel makes a nervous noise, but doesn’t pull away.

"And anyway…" Crowley pitches her voice low, a whisper disappearing into the thick stone walls. "You're already improper." Long fingers have snaked up the far side of Aziraphale’s body, to find the loose curls at her cheek, stroking them and the damp skin under them. "What's this?"

Aziraphale, rosy faced now, gasps once or twice before stuttering. "I can't... I can't keep it all in the whole day. And there's no getting this corporation to behave, believe me I've tried! The things it puts me through…" Aziraphale trails off, more's the pity, just as things were getting interesting. She had started to sound a bit more like herself at the end. That’s easily stopped.

"What it's put you through? Your disobedient corporation?" Crowley winds one of the angel's errant ringlets with her pointer finger, the other three sliding under the wimple, tight against Aziraphale's flushed, plump cheek. The whole manoeuvre pulls their faces so close they’re almost touching. Crowley can see the redness on Aziraphale’s lower lip where she’s bitten herself. Her breath smells of fruit and herbs, and it catches and sighs as she fidgets, coming slightly closer and farther in turn from the demon 

"Crowley, no… I… you shouldn't be here."

This part of the game they've played before. She'll loosen the angel's increasingly sweaty grip on her Chastity by engaging another of her Virtues.

"I'm a lonely traveler taking refuge. You know I have nowhere to go. Have you no pity?" Crowley’s lips whisper, pressed against Aziraphale's cheek, holding her in place. "No _caritas_ for a wayward soul?' There’s a little extra sibilance on the last word, she can’t help it, tongue forking a bit, already eager. Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's sweetroll thigh with a firm hand, fingers digging through the thick wool of her scapular to press into the tender fat at the side of her knee. The angel's hiss of pain prompts a curious look from Crowley.

“I’ve… The chapel floor is hard.” Aziraphale has the wherewithal to look embarrassed.

“So… you think you have a way out of your sins angel? Like they do?” Crowley digs her fingers a little harder into the tender flesh between the angel’s tendons above her bruised knee. The fingers in the yellow curls tighten, tugging against the scalp beneath the many layers of coif, wimple and veil. Aziraphale squeaks, a surprised, hurt sound, before she leans into Crowley, relieving the pain. The demon’s other hand releases a bruised knee, petting soothingly, and mostly chastely, across the angel’s leg, before coming up to cup her face, thumb stroking across the roseate cheek beneath trembling lashes.

Aziraphale whimpers again, very slightly wheedly this time, raising her clasping hands before pressing them back into her lap. The heavy weave of the habit falls in the split of her parting thighs. There’s a magnetic warmth coming from the angel, from between her shifting legs. Crowley’s palms burn.

Fingers working under the linen coif that vainly struggles to retain the angel's glory, Crowley tugs out a tumbling handful of golden curls, pulling them loose and tousled around Aziraphale's face, her downcast eyes. Her wimple has come unfastened, the linen of her coif tied under her chin showing cream, thin enough to be transparent with sweat in the crease of her throat. A few tears gleam on the angel's darkened lashes.

“You don’t have to fight it, you know. You could just say yes and we’d save all this time I could be spending being sweet to you.”

“Oh Crowley..” Her voice is so faint it causes a brief pang of concern until the angel goes on.

“A _convent_ Crowley? Really? I’m wearing a _habit!_ Have you no respect at all?”

“Now you’re appealing to my piety? Do you think that’s going to go well?” Crowley punctuates the mockery by sliding her left hand down and heavily back across the angel’s body, insinuating under her scapula to grasp the thick wool of the habit, beginning to gather it, lifting away from where it’s stitched hem drags on the rushes over the flagstone floor. Crowley’s fingers find their way beneath the linen of the shift layered between the coarse wool habit and the angel’s skin, soft against the back of the demon’s hand.

Aziraphale is resisting, the heavy, warm strength of her fighting against Crowley’s groping makes the demon weak with desire. She can feel her eyes unfocus, the room blurring as her nose is filled with the smell of Aziraphale, hot and ripe under her, ready to be devoured.

Aziraphale struggles, making small cries pitched to stay inside the cell. She tosses her head, fighting Crowley’s fingers under her headpiece. The lift of her jaw shows the fastening of her coif, loosened slightly under the pale roll of her chin. 

It only takes a moment, a strike of long limbs, to pull them both up onto the length of the pallet, Crowley’s legs around the bulk of the angel’s hips, holding her against the demon’s body, covered head tilted back on a sharp shoulder, throat and the exposed ends of the tie of her coif begging for Crowley’s teeth. She steadies herself with a long breath, before giving in; pulling Azirphale’s softness tight against her, running hands up and down the sides of the angel’s body, digging fingertips in to find the curve of rib hidden under layers of wool and flesh, under arms, the secret nodes of tenderness, before coming to rest, innocent, at Aziraphale’s waist. Another long breath seems just the thing, Crowley tucking her mouth against Aziraphale’s neck, hot and wet against the thin fabric. 

“Just let me take the coif off. You don’t have to take anything else off. Just that. You were about to take it off before I arrived weren’t you?” An open mouthed kiss against the thin covering over the comfortable give of Aziraphale’s throat becomes another, and Crowley is sucking, licking, her tongue tasting the well-salted butter of the angel’s skin through the translucent, soaking cloth. Aziraphale tosses her head again, a plump palfrey fighting the bridle. [3] Crowley tightens her thighs, squeezing the angel’s padded hips, gentling her for a moment.

“Crowley! This is not a negotiation!” Aziraphale’s pleading tone was at odds with the weight of her body pressing back against Crowley’s chest. The demon stills for a breath, letting the echo of the angel’s cry settle into the stone floor, before she moves just one finger, very slightly, stroking the nap of the heavy scapula over the angel’s belly, hard enough so she’ll feel it on her skin under the habit. It’s a struggle to keep the movements slow, gentle. Her cunt is slippery, swollen. Aziraphale must feel the heat of it against her back, even through the layers of wool and linen. Mouth sealed in the cleft of Aziraphale’s throat, the fingers of her right hand slowly trace the eyeholes where the tie binds the hair covering. 

Crowley waits for a small gasp, a lifting and settling of hips on the thin bed, before tugging and teasing the loosening ties of the coif with one hand while the other returns to gathering the heavy fall of the angel’s habit, higher now, until a gleam of skin in the dim room is revealed as one chubby knee and then the other comes bare, above the ties of her white stockings. Crowley grips the fabric for a moment, gazing down Aziraphale’s body to the irresistible gateway of her thighs. Long fingers at the angel’s throat work at the cord of the coif. 

The angel is making little cries now, high pitched, breathy, eyes closed, colour high. The fastening of the coif gives way, and the loosened cap falls slack. Crowley’s hand slides all the way in, grasping the silken curls and pulling them loose to fall unhindered around her face, 

“It does… it does inflame lust. It’s your nakedness and that’s why you’re supposed to keep it hidden. Look what you’ve done to me angel, I can’t help myself.” Crowley’s mouth is on Aziraphale’s throat, soft and wet from the demon’s relentless attentions, sucking and licking at the now bare skin. Her right hand tugs the rest of the flaxen hair free, the pieces of the habit’s headdress falling to the cot beside them. 

“You see what you do to me? With your shameless, uncovered glory?” From holding the bunched wool to slipping between honeycake thighs, up under the angel’s shift, it’s warm, warmer, warmest, until, teeth sinking into a bared throat, Crowley’s left hand touches hair as well.

Disheveled, mewing, Aziraphale is almost at the moment of surrender, yielding her prize to Crowley’s clever fingers and devilish tongue. The fingers of the demon's left hand just touch the coarse spring of the angel’s pubic hair, silken curls from her head in the other. Crowley brings her mouth up to the angel’s small pink ear, touching it, tasting it, once with the tip of her tongue, before whispering wetly, warmly into it. 

“Shall I leave you be, angel? Stop tormenting you? Leave you to fall to your knees and repent before Matins?” Aziraphale gives a squeaking sound of dismay, tossing her head again, squeezing Crowley’s hand between her thighs.

“I don’t know if I can though. Temptress.”

With a groan, Aziraphale’s thighs part, head heavy and slack against Crowley’s shoulder, and the demon’s fingers press in, invited, unimpeded, to part the angel’s furred lips, finding the hot wetness there, stroking her open.

The strokes stay soft and slow, Crowley suckling lasciviously at the angel’s throat, jaw, plump cheek and delicate ear, alternating between running fingers through and tugging on the exuberance of golden curls now surrounding Aziraphale’s head, a naked, gilded halo.

“You’re so delicious, I can’t stop eating you. You’re all the vices angel, and I’m going to sin every one of them.” Crowley’s fingers between the angel’s legs pause, held just on the fat bud of her clitoris, dragging a sob from Aziraphale as she tilts her hips up desperately into the still fingers. The arch of her back pushes her breasts up, soft, loose, and Crowley groans into the angel’s ear, mourning her own lack of limbs that leaves those needy dugs hungry and untouched. 

Aziraphale bends her knees, her legs unashamedly open, moaning helplessly, thrusting up into the demon’s hands, turning so their mouths meet, spilled mead, heated wine, spiced meat. Tongues together, Crowley rewards her with two long fingers thrust inside the eager, gaping wetness of her cunt, and a calloused thumb against her clitoris. 

It’s so good, this part, the minutes or hours after the angel’s surrender, before her climax. Crowley fucks her thoroughly, thumb relentless on her eager clit, right hand holding her head captive while satiating herself at Aziraphale’s swollen mouth, drinking every cry, every moan and wail. They don’t even enter the room before Crowley is swallowing them, noises and spit.

The angel is close, thighs trembling, back arching to lift her full arse right off the cot between Crowley’s legs, cunt gripping the three fingers now thrusting inside her. 

“Show me heaven, angel,” Crowley whispers, jerking Aziraphale’s hair hard, pulling away for a moment to see her lover’s face. Damp, debauched, abandoned to pleasure, pain a seasoning to sweetness, a bright splash of lemon in the cream, Aziraphale is coming, moaning out her ecstasy into Crowley’s welcoming mouth, pussy so tight around the demon’s fingers she wonders if she’ll ever be free.

...o.O.O.o…

It’s cool in the stone cell, especially in the darkest hours before dawn, but Crowley is curled around a warm, soft and satiated angel, face nuzzled into piles of golden hair, smelling faintly of rosewater and sex.

“You really are the most beastly creature, you have to get out of here before breakfast! How do you plan to do that?” Aziraphale doesn’t bother sounding anything but fond.

“Can’t we hole up here with your cakes and ale angel?” An indolent snap and there’s a fresh currant roll and refilled tankard on the table by the pallet. Aziraphale’s laugh peals delightedly against the stone walls before she sobers. 

“You still can’t stay, you know…I’ll have to go.” 

“Well, me too angel. What do you think I’m here for? I’ve got the abbess after evensong.”

“Oh! You absolute fiend! Incorrigible serpent!” The angel sits up, pushing playfully against Crowley’s breastbone, before sliding plump, strong hands down her ribs. 

“Incorrigible, angel? How can you say that, if you don't try to correct me?” 

The second round is slower, and quieter than the first, ending with a shared breakfast under the benevolent eye of Our Lady, Refuge of Sinners. Currant and raspberry kisses are exchanged, and the Sister is not late for Vigils. That afternoon, a novice gets a fright when she spots a small black snake sunning itself in the garden, but she’s soothed by her Superior's pious consolation. My daughter, has not even the serpent its role to play in Creation?

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. “people believed if you would swear by God’s bones, or by Christ’s fingernails, you were actually affecting their bodies up in Heaven.” [By God's Bones: Medieval Swear Words](https://www.medievalists.net/2013/11/by-gods-bones-medieval-swear-words/)
> 
> 2\. I made up the specifics, although wealthy women did commission Books of Hours, and this is the one I imagine to be Crowley (and the hat); [Image of an item from the British Library Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts](http://www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/ILLUMIN.ASP?Size=mid&IllID=5856)
> 
> 3.pal•frey (ˈpɔl fri)  
> n., pl. -freys. Archaic.  
> 1\. a riding horse, as distinguished from a war horse.  
> 2\. a saddle horse particularly suitable for a woman.


End file.
